


ARSONIST'S LULLABYE

by renieandthejets



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post-Canon, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, i like entertaining the idea of alucard without being tied down, not sure if i'm going to include integra, since i think he would be a completely different person when free
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renieandthejets/pseuds/renieandthejets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the undead are after your neck and the people are a million times worse, all you have is your fire. Would you allow him to take it from you? </p><p>Alucard x Reader; slow build.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tout le monde te feras aussi (ta fête)

**Author's Note:**

> So I used to be pretty active in the Hellsing RP community on tumblr but lately it’s been harder and harder to find the drive to write for my OC than it is for me to write fanfiction. So I decided to delete her and transfer over the same background story into the Reader’s character. This is more or less just in case anyone recognizes the background/mannerisms of the character, but I doubt anyone will. Otherwise this is totally new for me so I hope you enjoy! And yes, before anyone asks, I’m still working on my Negan and Daryl stories.

The night sky, you suppose, is one of the more peaceful things you’ll come across this evening, despite the terror is usually brings with it. Currently, the darkness, barely illuminated by the pale glow of the moon, brings about a calm, serene, quiet. Earlier? It brought howling, shrieking, the splash of blood upon blessed steel. Despite this, there are barely any remnants of a fight. The putrid smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air, and to anyone inexperienced in your profession, it would be nothing more than a bad smell floating through the night. The smell might reach the nearby village in a few days or it might not. It didn’t matter much to you. Remains of bodies surround you as well, but they appear as nothing more than puffs of dust upon the battlefield. Perhaps the only _dead_ giveaway of the slaughter that occurred earlier is the damp ground, soaked with the blood of your enemies. You are not without your wounds, however. Most of your fights went this way; an initial struggle, a few moments needed to feel out your opponent, blood belonging to both parties is shed, and then they fall. You have yet to walk out of one of these encounters unscathed. Too eagerly does the blood spill from open veins, its crimson tide and boiling heat attracting any and all that knew its smell. And in this part of the neighborhood, there were plenty that did. But what kind of profession would attract the scent of blood and the heat of battle? It’s nothing your mother would approve of, that’s for sure, but then again, it’s not like you were seeking the approval of a dead woman to begin with. You were no criminal, but you were no hero either. Instead, you settled for being a rather strange sort of vigilante, the kind of person that nobody really knew existed but needed nonetheless.

You were, quite simply, a bounty hunter. But not just any bounty hunter, oh no. Where would the fun in that be?

You see, your skills lied in the slaying of creatures that parents told their children about at night. Vampires, werewolves, mischievous fey… no monster was safe from your blade. Having been born into a family of monster hunters – and before you ask, _no_ , you aren’t related to van Helsing in the slightest – proved it quite difficult to take on any other sort of job in life. Well, at least that’s how you viewed it. Your father and uncle, known for their prowess in the Vietnam War, had told you more often than once to avoid a life of bloodshed, to move out and live quietly in some small suburb with some small family and some weak spouse. It would be a lie to say that they had fought nothing more than the humans they killed during the war, and their stories are what intrigued your curiosity at such a young age. Journals upon journals about their hunts together, the places they traveled to, the bounties they killed, the lives they saved. Everything seemed like a fairytale, and you wanted absolutely everything to do with it. But they didn’t want you to suffer, didn’t want you to face the horrors that they had, both in and outside of the battlefield. Your father in particular shared this sentiment the most, but you had a gut feeling that your uncle seemed to understand where your true passions lied, no matter how much he seemed to protest. So you began to train in secret, traveling to the privately-owned grounds in Jakobstad, learning the tools of the trade your father and uncle had honed so perfectly. Finland was certainly cold, but Jakobstad was remote enough that you were able to train and take on hunts without anyone really noticing, so you suffered through the terrible weather in the hopes that you would be unnoticed. For the most part you were.

And then, the vampire came. That night still haunted you to this day. That never-ending nightmare of fighting and severance and helplessness and the death that—

A weary sigh passes through your lips, slicing through the dark of the night and sounding much louder than it actually was. How long had it been since that day? Four years? No, you wouldn’t lie to yourself. You knew how long it had been down to the very last _second_. The scars that littered your body and the patch that covered what remained of your left eye were more than enough of a reminder. As such, you preferred to take on bounties that _didn’t_ involve fang-bearing, bloodsucking beasts, but if it put food on the table…

The quiet rustling of leaves brings you out of your daydream-like state, causing the hairs on your arms to prickle and the grip on your weapon to become tighter as a lone eye directs its gaze towards the source of the noise. Externally, you’re ready for another fight, should it come down to that. Internally, you’re weary and panicking. Any trained eye would not miss the slight tremor in your grip. _Another one? No, the contractor said there were only three. But what if he miscounted? Humans aren’t always—_

“Well now, isn’t this a surprise. Looks like someone’s done my work _for me_.” 

The voice is a rich and deep baritone, distinctly male, with each word rumbling in his chest as he spoke. His words come out with a careful precision, yet his tone emphasizes a nonchalant manner. Your gaze scours the field for the source of the intrusion, but there is nobody to be seen. You blink rapidly, wondering if the night’s events were starting to get to your head. 

“Look at you, _girl_. You’re trembling in your boots.”

Okay, so at least you weren’t going crazy. And you most certainly were not trembling! You were just… slightly terrified of the overwhelming power that was radiating everywhere. But now you had to deal with whoever this _asshole_ was, so maybe going crazy wasn’t so bad after all. 

You were tempted to make a break for it, for the unease settling upon your skin and the aura that seemed to make the night even darker than it already appeared – yeah, you were _definitely_ getting too old for this – was more than enough reason to flee the scene. 

That is, until the disembodied voice decided to give a face to its source, just like it’d promised. For the moment you even attempted to run, he appeared in a flash, effectively blocking the only way you knew out of the forest. Ignoring the outrageous way he was dressed, you tried to assess the situation as best as you could. He was tall, and that was really saying something, given the fact that you almost reached six feet yourself. He must have had at least another foot on you, lanky limbs and all. His face was shrouded for the most part, silken black hair and tinted spectacles getting in your way, but from what you could see he was pale and sickly and—

Vampire.

As if he had read your thoughts, the man— no, the monster in question flashed a devilish grin at you, pointed fangs and all, confirming what you feared the most. 

_Shit. Shitshitshitshit._

“It’s quite terrifying to see the real deal in person, isn’t it?” the vampire chortled at you, as if he already knew the monsters you had slain only moments before weren’t nearly as formidable as he. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out that he could snap your neck in half a second should he so choose. But before you had time to think of any sort of reply – he probably liked hearing himself talk – the vampire continued talking to you as if you were nothing more than a brick wall. “I am _curious_ about you, girl. The reports showed that any human forces sent to destroy the scum you finished off were obliterated within seconds. So why then, do you still stand?” 

He pauses, long enough for you to realize he wants you to answer his questions. But how wise would it be to answer? Certainly wiser than attempting to flee at this point, that was for sure. 

“H-Help,” you manage to croak out meekly, wanting to smack your head into the nearest tree at how weak you sounded.

Your response earns a chuckle.

You clear your throat, “Hired help. Hitman, assassin, bounty hunter, whatever. They were offering money, so I took the job.” He raises a slight brow at you at this, his interest just barely piqued. 

“And so you took the job without knowing just what you were getting yourself into? _Fascinating_.” The last word is spoken with a childish wonder, and there is no stopping the visible shudder that courses through your body at his monstrous grin. You only wondered at how many had suffered the end of their days by death of his carnivorous maw. Was he really that entertained by your success? And just who was this guy, anyway? No matter the outcome tonight, there was no way he was knowing just what kind of hired help you were and what your lineage was. “But tell me, girl. Did they just happen to _give_ you that blessed steel you wield in your hands? I had no idea the British Government was so generous these days.”

Well, fuck.


	2. FATHER STRETCH MY HANDS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry about how late this is. I’m in my senior year of nursing school and I feel like each semester is twice as busy as the last one was. I actually had half of chapter two written at some point, but then my computer crapped out on me and I had to re-write it. So I hope you enjoy and I hope that everyone has had a great holiday season.

Sunlight flutters in between a mass of trees, bright glow landing softly against your still form. The atmosphere is silent, not a single sound to fall upon those who would listen. Slowly, but surely, you stir, groaning out a profanity or three as you’re greeted by blinding light in the middle of the forest. The remnants of the night prior linger on your skin, dried blood and ghoulish remains ever-present and a silent reminder of the victory you achieved. And then suddenly, the memories of what transpired _after_ the fight hit you like a wall of bricks, and panic surges in your chest. You’ve never jumped to your feet faster in your life, hands feeling around for any possible injuries or malaise, and you surprisingly come out emptyhanded. No bite marks, no broken bones, nothing. Had you dreamt the bit with the lone vampire? Surely not. It wasn’t like you to hallucinate, and the only vampires that plagued your dreams were the ones that recalled the memories of your dead father, and the one you spoke with last night was _certainly_ not one of them. So, if you really had spoken with such a powerful creature of the night, why had he left you unharmed, and for what reason?

Before you are able to get yourself lost in your thoughts any longer than you already have, your ears perk up at the sounds of a group of men calling your name. Instantly, you recognize the voice of the mayor of the village, a shrill voice that was appropriate for such an arrogant man. Perhaps he thought that he was going to get away without paying? Either way, you dusted yourself off a bit and fixed your hair, attempting to look at least _somewhat_ presentable. After reassuring that your claymore was in its proper place, you—

Wait a minute. 

Just where _was_ the weapon you had been using last night? Your hand reached absently behind your back, the blade lacking from its normal spot in the holster. Wide-eyed and weary, you looked around and around the barren ground of the forest, but the weapon was nowhere to be seen. 

And then you realized it. 

Memories—

Him—

Fighting, and losing, remembering the cackle that echoed so profoundly in your ears—

 _You want this back, little hunter? Then show me just how_ angry _you really are!_

Shadows wrapping around you, body and soul, suffocating, strangling, _tightening_. The quiet comfort of sleep. His voice, deep and robust, chuckling as you struggled with futile efforts against his strength. 

“That goddamn bloodsucker!” you shout in rage, blood boiling and fire surging through your veins. 

Regardless of how strong he was, he had taken what was most precious to you, and he would pay. 

But only if you knew how utterly wrong you were. Judgment had never been one of your strong suits, anyway. 

The rest of the day flies by in a blur. When the mayor questions your lack of weapon and the sorry appearance of your clothes and your skin, you offer him a smooth lie, saying that the claymore broke in battle and that you’d need to fly back to the Vatican to get more blessed silver if you were going to continue this job of yours. He doesn’t buy it, and even threatens to cut your pay in half for being so reckless, but thankfully one of his naïve and gullible workers comes to your defense, pointing out that the village would still be in danger if it weren’t for your sacrifice. Reluctantly, the mayor agrees, paying you in full and offering a few extra hours – two max, he stated – in your room at the inn to collect yourself and be on your way. You offer him your thanks and send a wink towards the foolish boy, to which his response is nothing more than a blush and a sheepish grin. 

So here you are, relaxing in the shower for a little longer, scrubbing off every last bit of vampire trash and the memories that went with it. The water had lost its scorching heat at least a half hour ago, but it had offered the ritualistic cleansing you needed after each job you completed. Your hair was first, nails scrubbing out blood and dirt and whatever else decided to seal itself in your scalp, the filth turning the water almost _black_. Your body came next, fingertips running over each and every jagged scar and lips silently remembering each mistake you had made in your fighting that had caused the injury in the first place. And lastly... your face. One hand grasped tightly around your father’s crucifix while the other cleaned the damaged remains of your left eye and the scarring that surrounded it. It was the most significant wound, and the one that haunted you the rest of your life. Every time you bathed, you forgave yourself for the mistakes you had made in battle, washing away the night’s fighting with the dirt and grime that whirled down the drain. But never, _never_ had you ever forgiven yourself for the death of your father, and never had you ever been able to ignore the painful memories that always resurfaced. Softly, you murmur “I’m sorry, papa,” voice echoing in the stark melancholy of your shower. Your hand releases the necklace, and you gently kiss the imprint of the crucifix that remains on your skin. 

After deciding you had bathed long enough, you step out, a cloud of steam following in your footsteps as you pad across plush carpet and fling yourself on what was quite possibly the world’s most uncomfortable bed, but at this point you didn’t really care. The fleeting fight with the unexpected vampire and the horrible sleep you had right after forced your body to catch up with its exhaustion. You wanted nothing more than to just nap the rest of the day away, but pushing the mayor’s patience was not something you could afford to do today. With a sigh, you roll off the bed and gather the pile of clothes from the corner, fishing out what you could salvage as acceptable to wear in public. The top was ruined, but the pants were still decent enough, you supposed. Just as you were about to slip on the tattered garment, a soft _clink_ sounds in the room. You quizzically raise a brow, shaking your pants until the item in question falls out of an open pocket and onto the carpet. 

“A bullet?” you ask yourself silently, reaching down to pick up the ammo from the floor. Held carefully in between your thumb and index finger, you appraise the bullet, questioning its sudden appearance in your clothes. It’s made of silver, or at least, that’s what you think. Immediately, you think of demon slaying and vampire hunting, but those were few and far in between, and you highly doubted that anyone else shared the same profession as you did. Besides, guns had never been in your arsenal, even during your early training days in Finland, so why would a silver bullet of all things be in your clothes? You bring it closer to your face, lone eye squinting and attempting to read the engraving on its rim. 

“Thirteen millimeter… casing? I guess. Hel… Hellsing? What in God’s name is any of this supposed to mean?” A frustrated scoff passes your lips and you angrily shove the bullet pack into your pant pocket, hastily throwing on the rest of your clothes before heading out the door. Steel-toed combat boots thud loudly down the stairs and into the lobby as you leave your room key placed upon the front desk and make your way towards your car. And as you pull out of the small town, not glancing back at the small crowd that has gathered for your departure, you can’t help but wonder about the single bullet in your possession, thoughts drifting towards the unnamed vampire and questioning his involvement in all of this.


	3. Buried underground, but I'll keep coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I think I'm finally back into the swing of things with this story. I was talking to someone on tumblr about the story as a whole and just how I wanted to interpret Alucard/where I wanted to take the direction of the plot at, and I have a good grasp of how I want this all to turn out. None of our favorite vampire in this chapter again, but he will be returning in the next one. I wanted to flesh out the reader and her other relationships a little bit more. As always, reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated!

Four days pass before you see the vampire again. The trip back to your sad little apartment in the outskirts of the city felt longer and more tiring than usual, no thanks to the exhaustion settling upon your weary form. The moment you arrived home, you had proceeded to throw yourself onto your bed and slept, not waking up until the evening of the following day. You groggily and painfully awoke to a mass of texts from a few select friends you had, friends who were also in the bounty hunting business. A few of them lived across the globe, while one was nearby and was usually the one who helped you find employers for brief jobs. Your friend preferred to hunt other kinds of monsters and had never actually fought a vampire themselves, while you on the other hand couldn’t seem to get enough of them. As much as you complained about hunting bloodsuckers, deep down inside you knew that there was a thrill in fighting them that you couldn’t find anywhere else. So, it came to no surprise that your friend was eagerly waiting for an update, an eagerness that turned into panic after a delayed response on your end. Sighing, you mentally prepared yourself for the phone conversation that was to come and dialed one of your friends. 

_Please don’t pick up please don’t pick up please don’t pick up—_

“Where in the _hell_ have you been!? I haven’t heard from you in three days!” 

_God dammit._

“Sorry, man. Got a little caught up the last couple of days. Ran into some extra trouble I wasn’t expecting. You know how those go.” You were hoping you could get away with talking as vaguely as possible, but this friend in particular wanted every last juicy detail of your missions that he could get. His real name was Francis, but he tended to go by Jon, or Mark, or Hank, or any other name besides his real one, really. Being in the bounty hunting business came with a fair amount of risks, one of which being that you never knew who was aware of your identity and what they would do with it. Monster hunters in particular were always on the go, never staying in one place for too long. Like the human mafia, there were orders of spirits and demons that kept their brethren in check and kept a careful eye on those that were taking out one of their own. You yourself had many names and identities, and you carefully made sure that you disclosed as little information as possible, even to the employers you were working for. You and your friend had nicknames for one another, however. He liked to call you “viking” because of the claymore you swung around, and you liked to call him “shit stain” because… well, he was one. Really affectionate names for a really affectionate friendship, clearly. 

“No shit you got a little caught up,” he replied snarkily, voice tense mixed in with the underlying sarcasm. “What happened out there, viking?”

“Nothing, really. Vampires gave me a more trouble than usual. They actually realized that I wasn’t some petty human a few minutes into the fight. Caught me off guard, since I usually get at least _ten_ before they start panicking, ha!” Your laughter is forced, and you know your friend won’t be fooled, but you continue your attempts anyway. To be honest, it might not be a bad idea to talk about your run in with Mr. I Like to Hear Myself Talk, since you had little information to go off of. Bounty hunters, while mostly driven by the need to survive, were always willing to help out one another, especially when another’s life was dangling in the balance. 

He sighs, and you can practically see him pinching his nose through the phone. He says your name wearily – your _real_ name – and that’s how you know things are about to get serious. “Look. You and I both know that something happened that night. I’m not an idiot; you don’t go on a mission for three days and then not tell me, or anyone else for that matter, when you come home. I hooked you up with that mayor because I knew it was a job you could take care of easily and get a decent pay out of it. Hell, even I could have probably done it, and I’ve never even dealt with a bloodsucker before. What’s got you shaking so bad?” 

You’re tempted to tell him, you really are. But the biggest problem with Francis was that he was _incredibly_ protective, so much to the point that he would get himself into reckless situations if it meant he could save his friends from whatever situations they were in. It was extremely thoughtful and kind of him, to say the least. When you’re reluctant to respond and remain silent on the line, he says your name again, firm and with purpose. 

“…Fine. But you can’t tell anyone. I’m not exactly sure what we’re dealing with here, and I honestly think I’m lucky I made it out alive that night.” 

“Shit, girl. I’ve never heard you talk like that before. Lay it on me, then.” 

“The mission went fine, honestly. They sort of ganged up on me at first, but you know that I’m a bit of a masochist when it comes to fighting vampires. I like to give them the upper hand at first, and I _did_ , and then they were dead in the dirt before they could even process what happened. And just as I was about to head back to the town for the night, I heard this voice. I thought to myself, ‘well shit, I really am getting too old for this goddamn job if I’m hearing things’ and brushed it off at first, but the voice kept talking to me. Uhm… and then he just sort of appeared in front of me, big fangs and all. He kept asking me questions about the vampires, like he was there to take care of them himself, and I tried to pass it off like I didn’t know what he was talking about. But he saw the claymore… knew it was blessed steel instantly. I don’t remember what happened after that.” 

Francis is quiet for a moment. 

“Did he bite you?” 

“Not that I can tell. I woke up the next morning face first in the dirt. Oh, he took the blade too.” 

“He _what_?” 

“Yeah. Claymore’s gone. Had to tell the mayor I broke it during the fight last night or else he was gonna cut my paycheck. I looked the woods up and down and didn’t see shit.” 

“Why the fuck would a vampire take your claymore?” 

You sigh angrily, because you didn’t have an answer to that question yourself either. “I think we ended up fighting at some point during the night and he took it. I’m not sure. I don’t usually forget stuff like this.” 

“You think he clouded out your memory on purpose?”

“I mean, yeah, but why bother? He was stronger than me and could have killed me anyway. I think he gave me something as a hint, too. Some kind of bullet. He might have put it in my pocket after I passed out, or after he knocked me out, or whatever. Either way, you and I both know that it's not mine. Had the word ‘Hellsing’ engraved on the ba—”

“ _VIKING_. What did you just say?” 

“It… said Hellsing on the back?” 

“Are you absolutely _positive_?” 

“ _Yes_ , I’m looking at it right now! What’s got you all nervous, dude?” 

Francis is quiet again, and it takes you yelling out his name several times in the phone before he responds. His voice is firm, yet shaking, and you can tell he’s scared, but for what reasons, you have no clue. You’ve never heard him act this way before, and it’s making you nervous. What could he possibly know that you didn’t? 

“You need to come over. _Now_. You can’t be alone in that apartment anymore.” 

And then he hangs up, leaving you with nothing but a dead phone line buzzing in your ears. 

If it had been anyone else, you would have thought that they were playing some sick prank on you, maybe trying to scare you into thinking you were in some fake imminent danger. But Francis? Francis was _never_ like that, and that’s what scared you the most. Without hesitation, you throw on a new set of clothes, strap your machete to your thigh, and grab your car keys, nearly sprinting out of the apartment. 

Your father’s crucifix is left abandoned on the nightstand. 

You arrive at Francis’s apartment about a half hour later. He lived on a much nicer side of town since he made a considerable more amount of money than you did, so you received more than a few odd looks when your ratty vehicle pulled into the lavish neighborhood. Probably had something to do with the fact that he was a bit of a swindler during his hunts and was worlds more charismatic than you ever would be, but that wasn’t the issue at hand. After a few moments of knocking, the door opens just a crack, and you’re met facing hazel brown eyes. 

“Are you alone? Did you notice anyone following you?” he whispers at you, as if he’s a child being afraid of being caught stealing from the cookie jar. 

“Not that I noticed? Look, can you just let me in? You’re freaking me out a little bit here.”

“Yeah, but hurry.” Francis ushers you in with the beckoning of his hands, making sure that you’re well and truly alone after looking outside for a few moments. He nearly slams the door and then begins a combination of intricate locks you had never seen before. This whole situation was nervous. The guy practically left his door unlocked, especially during broad daylight! Finally, he turns towards you, pushing past your form and heading downstairs into the basement without a word. You can do nothing but follow. The stairs creak in protest under your heavy steps, and before you know it you’re face to face with an old wooden table that has photo after photo strewn about it. For the most part, they’re blurry and hard to distinguish from one another. But there are a few that catch your eye. Before you can look at them, however, Francis places a hand on your shoulder. 

“We’ll get to those in a second. First…” he pauses, biting his lip in a common nervous habit you saw every now and then, “how much do you know about what happened to London back in 2000?” 

You roll your eyes at him. “What, the terrorist bombing? Everyone knows about that. Shit was all over the news for like two weeks.” 

“No, Viking. I’m talking about what _really_ happened to London.”


	4. Blood on the leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hunts for you, and you want everything to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update! I'm in my final semester of college and it's been insanely busy. My muse for this story is still very strong but I just haven't had the chance to finish chapters the way I want to. This chapter's a mix of filler/mix of Alucard, and then next chapter our favorite anti-hero is back. I know these last few chapters have been a little slow, but I really like to place emphasis on character building, especially for the reader. Francis will also become a key player later on in the story and I want the readers to get an understanding of his role/relationship with you. As always, comments are always appreciated, no matter what you have to say.

“What do you mean ‘what really happened’?” you finally say to Francis after a prolonged silence. 

“I don’t know how true this is, but there’s a group of us out there that thinks what happened that night was more than meets the eye, and the photos I have are proof. I ran into someone on a hunt a few years back, said he had really important info to sell me. He came all the way from London and spent over five years trying to find me through whatever connections he had. Dude sounded crazy at first, but the more he talked about it, the more it made sense. And then he sold me those photos you see on the table over there. Have you ever heard of Hellsing?” 

You shake your head. “Name sounds familiar, but no.” 

“They’re an organization that existed about a century or so ago, dedicated to eradicating any and all sorts of vampires that they could get their hands on. They were mostly situated in London, but I heard that they would travel to Ireland or Italy for whatever reasons. Some say they were on bad terms with the Vatican, but you never know. Either way, that bullet you found in your pocket has to be from their organization.” 

“So I have a bullet from an old vampire-hunting organization. Great. So what? It’s not like we’re the only people that hunt monsters these days. It’s been around since people started spreading rumors about Dracula and all that other bullshit, probably even before then.” 

Francis shakes his head, raising a hand up to silence your rambling. “You don’t get it. The attack on London was _because_ of Hellsing. As in, it wasn’t a terrorist attack. Look, be skeptical all you want, but I know I’m onto something here. _Nobody_ survived that attack, Viking. Nobody! London was entirely wiped out in the span of a _night_. Millions of people just dead doesn’t happen overnight.” 

You scoff. “It was the work of Neo-Nazis! What else could it possibly have been? The whole fucking city was leveled. Nothing else can do that except for nuclear weapons. Nothing else that isn’t human, anyway.” 

“Listen to what you just said.” 

You pause, mouth open to repeat your words as if they were just nothing, but then you start to catch on to what he’s hinting at. 

“Something that wasn’t human… Hellsing made vampires do it?” 

“Hellsing didn’t make vampires do it. They made _a_ vampire save the world at the expense of the losses in London. C’mere.” 

He walks briskly over towards the table you spotted earlier, a wide array of blurry and grainy photos scattered across its surface. You’re hesitant to look at them at first, nervous at what you’re going to discover, but a voice in the back of your mind gently reminds you that you’ve never seen the other mercenary this terrified in your whole life. So reluctantly, you go to take a look. What you see, however, isn’t as expected. For the most part, the photos don’t give a clear cut of what’s in them, but you’re able to tell that the city was in the process of being destroyed. The angles on them are weird, and you’re trying to imagine just where or how the person taking the photos got them. The possibility that a drone or something similar took them, but for now it doesn’t matter too much. There’s a blimp in one of them, a Nazi emblem brazenly emboldened on the side, while the others have pictures of figures. A group of them, perhaps? Two are captured entering the blimp, while the other two remain facing each other a small distance away. The rest of the photos are too blurry to tell, but every so often they capture ever-growing rivers of blood and the black figures colliding with one another. Francis snatches up to the clearest photo of the two figures before the supposed battle began, finger pointing at the one figure closest to the blimp. 

“ _That_ ,” he begins, “is the problem.” 

“…that’s the vampire? 

“Yeah. Not sure what his name is, but the guy that gave me the photos swore on his life that he was the incarnation of Dracula or some shit. I think that’s where his information starts to falter, but for the most part I believe him. I mean, look at the rest of these photos! There’s blood _everywhere_ and these two are moving so fast that the camera can’t even capture it.”

“Who took the photos? Human error is a thing, you know.” 

“No shit. But it wasn’t a human. Dude said it was a government object that caught it. State of the art, too. So if the best in technology couldn’t capture this, then what was it trying to capture?” 

“Look, Francis. I appreciate the concern, and maybe you are onto something, but I really don’t think that—”

“ _YOU DON’T GET IT, VIKING._ That bullet you hold in your hands right there? That belongs to the fucking vampire that leveled the city. He owned weapons that literally ripped people apart with a single shot. Look at the craftsmanship on it. You might not see it at first, but that silver is the rarest kind you can find. That silver is the same silver that your father made your claymore with. Monster hunters would sell their fucking kidneys for those because of how potent they are. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an exploding round, either. Regardless, the vampire that attacked you last week _gave_ that to you. You and I both know that our enemies just don’t give away belongings. You and I both know that our enemies don’t blur out the memories of the battles we had the night before unless there’s an ulterior motive. And you and I both know that you’re scared shitless right now because he one-upped you, and he gave you that bullet for one reason and one reason only. _He’s. Hunting. You._ ” 

For once, you are left without an immediate response. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Anger, fiery and deep, begins to rise in your chest, while a sinking feeling punches itself in your gut. All of this was absolute nonsense. How dare he try and tell you that you were being hunted, that because of some blurry photos and a scary story that your life was at stake? Just who did he think he was, anyway? 

“I’m leaving,” you nearly growl, shoving the bullet back in your pocket and pushing your way past Francis. But he doesn’t let you leave easily, a painful grip sizzling down your shoulder as he holds you in place. 

“Not on my life, Viking.” 

You whirl around, shrugging off his hand and grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Once, you could have been lovers. Once, he cared for you as more than a friend, and maybe even still did. But the reason why you kept your conversations to strictly business was because of this display of character. It wasn’t the first time. 

“You fucking listen to me, shit stain. Don’t fucking tell me to leave my apartment when I am goddamn _exhausted_ and try to spook me into staying with you with some sob story about why London got leveled. I’m getting hunted by a vampire from Hellsing, so fucking what? I hope he finds me so that I can rip his goddamn face off and get my weapon back. A couple of blurry photos from a crazy man who scammed you isn’t going to change my mind or make me quit my job. He wants a fight? He wants a hunt? Well he better buckle up, because he’s gonna fucking get one.” 

And with that, you push him away, failing to see the wounded and hollow look in your friend’s eyes. Storming up the stairs before he can cause any other trouble, you unlock the tedious bolts on the front door and make your way to your car. The drive home is silent. Francis does not contact you for the rest of the evening. 

In the distance, the vampire follows you home.

Waiting. 

After all, he had all the time in the world. 

\--

Another week goes by without incident, and the fight with the other mercenary is in the back of your mind. You received a couple of texts on your burner phones about possible jobs, but none of them really seemed to interest you. A werewolf here, a naiad there… nothing like your fight with the vampire, though. From what you remembered at least. For the first few days, the argument with Francis ate away at you. What if he had been right? What if you really did have a reason to be scared? At the same time, why did it matter? If your enemy had wanted to attack, it would have done so. Vampires were impatient creatures, even with their immortality. Eventually, you had calmed yourself and resigned to take on whatever next mission came your way. Money was getting tight and you had been cooped up for too long in the house, anyway. A few days later, you receive an anonymous text with nothing more than a location, the time, and how much you would get paid. The next line in the text reads “ _need your expertise. vampire feeding off our town._ ” and for once, you were actually interested. 

Dare you say you were trying to find the creature that so desperately hunted you? 

The drive to the location takes a few hours, and despite your negative terms with Francis, you still shoot him a text letting him know where you’ll be. He responds almost instantly, asking what kind of hunt it was, but you ignore it. If he was truly worried enough, he would show up.

Your GPS sounds a quiet “you have arrived at your destination” in the car, much to your confusion. The car stops in the middle of sparse woods, a run-down cottage illuminated from the bright lights of the vehicle. The house hasn’t been occupied in years, and nothing else seems to be around for miles. On the precautionary side, you lock your doors, glancing down to check the address for the umpteenth time that evening. Sure enough, it’s where you were supposed to be. 

And then, another text. 

“ _past the cottage. get out of the vehicle and walk for another half hour. no lights. he’ll come._ ” 

Fear settles deep into your veins. Who was watching you? And why? Your grip tightens on the steering wheel, and you are more than hesitant to continue onward into the darkness. The last time you fell privy to her caress you ended up unconscious and lucky to be alive. And the more that you stared into the deepest, darkest recesses of the forest, the more it seemed to call you. 

Your phone buzzes again. 

“ _go._ ” 

What would you do? You didn’t need the money, really. If you asked Francis, he would offer up whatever leads he had without a second thought, simply because that was just the type of guy that he was. No vampires, no nightmares, none of that. It would be easy cash and you’d be back on your feet in no time. Your job was flexible, and deep down you damn well knew that. But would your pride allow you to forgo your current mission and admit that you didn’t have what it took to kill another vampire? More than likely not, and the ever-growing fear that gnawed its deep and ugly way into your heart stirred conflicting emotions that you hadn’t felt in quite some time. For whatever reason, whether it be the texts or the thrill of chasing the unknown, you wanted to blindly follow this lead and throw all logic out the window. Maybe it was the call of the night, whispering sweet little nothings into your ears, seducing you with its gentle caress and almost motherly encouragement to follow its footsteps. Or maybe it was the pale moon, full and robust and shining so beautifully down in the forest in small patches here and there, almost illuminating the way you needed to walk. 

You inhale, hold the breath, feel the pounding of your heart against your ribcage. The adrenaline was so high you thought it might burst out of your chest. 

Exhale. 

The soft click of the car doors unlocking. 

Blessed daggers rest strapped to both sides of your outer thighs, and with nothing more than the gift of a bullet clenched within your grasp, you begin to walk, hearing nothing more than the sounds of your steps on wet soil and seeing only the broad expanse of darkness that surrounds you. 

“Do not go gentle into that good night. _Rage, rage_ against the dying of the light.”


End file.
